


Soft As Petals, Hungry As Thorns

by faerymorstan



Series: Snow Queen 'Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Courtship, Flower Crowns, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I’m not busy tomorrow evening.</i> Sherlock clears his throat. <i>I suppose you could drop by.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> It's _Snow Queen_ courtship fic. With prairie plants. And bonus self-indulgent flower crown action.
> 
> For science? :D
> 
> Many thanks to [AtlinMerrick](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick) for the inspiration.

Sherlock opens the door to the house he rents from Mrs. Montague to find a short, golden-haired, well-muscled man leaning against his porch railing.

_Congratulations, Doctor Watson,_ Sherlock says, his voice slippery-smug.

John blinks. _How did you know that I finished--_

_\--your apprenticeship? Blue ink on three digits of your left hand. Lapis lazuli--expensive--you recently signed something important. What? Your proof of training, obviously._

_Remarkable!_

The same word he used when Sherlock helped John’s sister Harry in that matter with the clock: Sherlock thrilled to hear it then, and he thrills to hear it now. _Meretricious. Why are you here?_

_Thought I’d ask you out for a walk._

Sherlock narrows his eyes and ignores his hurrying heartbeat. _Why would we go for a walk?_

_To, you know, spend some time together. Get to know each other._

Give nothing away: Sherlock’s watchword. _To what end?_

_Who knows?_ John says, winking suggestively. _Ah, you’re blushing. You’re pure as the driven snow, aren’t you?_

_I consider myself married to my work,_ Sherlock says, hating that he sounds as prim as Mycroft.

John laughs. _Then your work is lucky. You’re brilliant, and beautiful, and anyone who meets you and doesn’t offer to court you is a hopeless fool._

_I’m not busy tomorrow evening._ Sherlock clears his throat. _I suppose you could drop by._


	2. Buckthorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t think, John, that I won’t push you into the buckthorn.

After his last patient, John walks to Sherlock’s village under April sun and pale clouds. He offers his arm as they leave; Sherlock scowls and ignores him.

John stifles a smile.

_I do not have friends,_ Sherlock announces, apropos of nothing, as they wander the prairie. _I do not observe social niceties, and I have been reliably informed that I do not have a heart. You would do better to court someone suited to domestic bliss._

Mischief in his grin, John asks, _Who says I’m looking for domestic bliss?_

Patches of colour form over high cheekbones. _Yes, well. I’m no expert in -that-, either._

Skinny and restless, fragile-seeming and proud: Sherlock’s a bird, John thinks, overwhelmed by an urge to protect him. _It’s fine,_ he promises, apologetic. _It’s all fine._

They pick their way through buckthorn and rest on a hill soft with bluestem. John gathers coneflower and coreopsis, idly weaving them together, while Sherlock scoops soil into glass tubes.

_What are you making, John?_

_A flower crown._

_Why?_

John drops his handiwork onto dark curls and relishes Sherlock’s scowl before Sherlock tackles him. They stare at each other, blossoms hanging drunkenly from Sherlock’s hair. _You’re lovely like this,_ John teases, letting Sherlock pin him.

Sherlock smirks, face tantalizingly close. _Don’t think, John, that I won’t push you into the buckthorn._


	3. Behold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love,_ John said. 
> 
> _John,_ Sherlock says.

One month and twenty-nine sun-dappled rain-spattered _not_ -romantic- _hush_ -John outings later, Sherlock talks and his foot hits a root and his body goes arse-over-teakettle down the hill, dry dirt crumbling after him as he creaks to a stop in the brambles.

He hears John’s hurry. _Sherlock! Are you all right?_

 _Of course._ He stands, stifles a scream, sits down hard: his left ankle’s _wrong._

John yells _Wait for me, you arse_ ; Sherlock stares at his distended joint and tells himself not to vomit. John kneels at his feet-- _Oh, love, look at you_ \--and cups Sherlock’s ankle in his hands, Sherlock hissing hard. 

Then: sunlight and rose oil, green grass and hazelnut. Balm on his tongue; in his injury, a relief and a mending. Ligaments join. Swelling calms. Sherlock moves his foot--simple--as John looks on, concern plain on his face.

 _Love,_ John said. 

_John,_ Sherlock says. 

_Does it hurt,_ John tries to ask, but Sherlock pulls him down and John gasps, _Not in the buckthorn._ Quick steps to the dropgrass and John straddles him, his nose nuzzling Sherlock’s, his voice sentiment-thick: _Can I kiss you?_

Sherlock’s heart threatens to beat through his linen shirt. _Yes._

Lips soft as petals, hungry as thorns. Hands that ask. John, who conducts every bit of brightness in Sherlock’s world, brilliant to behold.


	4. Betrothal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Marry me,_ John sighs.

Summer burns to its close, and John, stupid-in-love, feels like something out of his gran’s fairy tales. The courtships in Gran’s stories, though, have sweet words, sweet cakes, sweet intimacies; Sherlock never returns John’s sentimental outpourings, despises food, and often deters John’s advances with _Not now, John, I’m thinking._

Sherlock _can_ be courted, however.

When Sherlock’s chemicals burn through Mrs. Montague’s kitchen table, John builds two: one of oak for Mrs. Montague ( _and if you ruin this one, Sherlock, I’ll let her kill you_ ), and one of hickory for Sherlock, who promptly attempts to destroy it and is delighted when he can’t.

When Sherlock complains that bouquets are asinine, John plants Sherlock two rose bushes, one on either side of Sherlock’s front steps. Sherlock doesn’t say a word, but he is careful never to dump his failed experiments on them. 

When Sherlock, in a strop, breaks his tobacco pipe, John has one made for him from cherrywood. John lies on Sherlock’s sofa; Sherlock rests his back against John’s chest and smokes. John nuzzles Sherlock’s hair, feels the warmth of Sherlock’s body along his own. Wraps his arms around Sherlock’s slender torso.

_Marry me,_ John sighs.

A puff of smoke. _I’ve no interest in marriage. But I--John, that doesn’t mean--_

Curls, kissed. _Shh, love. It’s you I need, not a betrothal._


End file.
